


Ghosts of Paterson

by Contesa_lui_Alucard



Series: Ghosts of Paterson [1]
Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Self-Esteem Issues, Single Parents, white passing son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contesa_lui_Alucard/pseuds/Contesa_lui_Alucard
Summary: Paterson, no longer with Laura, has been ghosting through life. That is, until one day he meets a new passenger and her young son.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Series: Ghosts of Paterson [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134542
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28





	Ghosts of Paterson

**Author's Note:**

> If this is anyone’s first time reading something from me, let me just start by saying this is not a typical reader insert for me. Normally, I try to be as inclusive as possible with my reader inserts, but because this is something admittedly extremely self-indulgent, I’ve taken a few liberties. Namely, the female main character has a son who looks suspiciously like the product of a union with an ADCU character. I know this would not be true of everyone, so that is the liberty I have taken, and if that is something that will upset you then I urge you to skip this story.
> 
> It won't be a long story, this is just some little head canon bullsh*t that floats in my head when I'm sad, but if you like it there will be more.

Paterson has been driving this same route for years now, or at least what feels like years. At one point, after Laura left, he stopped noticing when time passed. It did, he knows it did, knew it by the way he’d watch the seasons change, the people change, the route change. But he felt like nothing about him changed, his life didn’t change, his routine didn’t change. The only difference was that now, he cooked his own dinner and made his own lunch. Now, he ate a lot more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than he used to. Now, he experimented a little when he cooked, but nothing too wild. He had picked up a nice looking cook book from the local book store and enjoyed trying to recreate the recipes. They were all classic, staple dishes: meatloaf, pork chops, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole. They were basic things, just like him. But he became rather good at making them, and was proud of himself for it. And sometimes, on particularly wistful nights, he’d imagine making them to share with someone else. He knew exactly how to double the recipes too, he’d figured it out. It wouldn’t be hard, and it wouldn’t cost him much more than it cost him now to pick up the extra ingredients. In fact, ever since Laura left he found himself with a lot of extra money. He wasn’t exactly rich, but he was comfortable, and so the extra funds he found himself accruing went into his savings account, put away for some future occasion when he might find himself in need of it. When he might find himself in a situation where someone needed _him_.

But on this morning, a morning like any other, driving the route he’d spent the last however many years driving, something different happens.

He approaches a stop that doesn’t often have passengers waiting at it, only today, there are two. The woman, young and beautiful, clutches the hand of a small boy, who has a little backpack strapped to his back that’s almost as large as he is. Paterson takes it slow and steady as he pulls up to the curb, a little more cautious than normal, but something about this pair catches his eye, sets something off inside of him that threatens to consume him, some need he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt before, a compulsion that screams for him to _protect, protect, protect._ The bus pulls to a stop, Paterson opens the doors, and the woman, you, guide your boy in front of you, holding his hand lifted above his head as he takes the large steps one at an unsteady time. When he clambers to the top, the little boy looks up at Paterson, meets him eye to eye, “Good Morning!” The boy greets, brown eyes big and sparkling, before his head whips back to look at you, long black hair cascading wildly around his head. You look down at him, smiling and nodding at the boy’s good display of manners, before meeting Paterson’s eyes yourself, “Good Morning,” you chirp cheerily, dipping your Metrocard into the slot.

“Good Morning,” Paterson replies with a smile, looking from you to your son. You hesitate for a moment, smiling back, before your son is tugging your hand and leading you towards an open seat. You’re sat somewhat close to the front of the bus, close enough to catch the handsome driver’s profile, helping your son get settled in his seat before stealing another glance. And another. And another.

Paterson can’t remember the last time he felt his heart beat like this, so erratic, so excited. He steals glances at you through the big rearview mirror, smiles as he watches you dote upon your son, your shoulders hunched and head dropped as you listen to him talk animatedly. Paterson can’t quite make out what the boy is saying but it must be exciting, the way his little hands are fluttering and his big brown eyes are going wider and wider. Paterson looks forward to seeing where it is you’re heading off to, which he knows is sort of creepy. It’s creepy to want to know where people are going and what they are doing. But his life is comprised of taking people where they need to go, is it really so strange to wonder where it is he’s taking them? Paterson doesn’t have to wait very long to find out, it turns out, when only 20 or so minutes later you’re reaching to press the big red button that signals a stop has been requested. He pulls over to the curb, right in front of a school, watching as you rise from your seat, helping your son to hop off and leading him back towards the front of the bus. Paterson opens the door for you, watching you through the mirror as you approach, delighted when both you and your son stop to wish him a good day before you depart. “Thank you, you as well,” Paterson replies with a smile, loving the way your eyes crinkle at the corners as you smile just a little wider at him. He watches you as you walk hand in hand with your son, taking his time closing the doors and pulling away from the curb. Watches you both approach the school, watches the way your hips sway in your dress, the way your calves look so taught and sexy in your heels, Paterson’s practically driving 20 miles under the speed limit as he cruises by, watching you until you and your son disappear through the building’s front door.

And just like that, Paterson doesn’t feel anything anymore. Doesn’t feel time, doesn’t feel change, doesn’t feel satisfied when he goes home that night and cooks himself dinner, or drinks his beer at Doc’s. Paterson goes through the motions, just like always, wakes up with the sun, pours himself a bowl of cereal, gets dressed, walks to the depot, gets into his bus, and then something different happens…

You’re there again.

You and your son, you’re standing at that stop again, and as he pulls the bus over to the curb and you and your son climb the steps, his heart does a somersault. “Good Morning,” he greets you, smile big and goofy, he knows it, he can feel it, and he hates that he’s smiling so big because he knows how silly he looks but he can’t help it, he’s just so happy. 

“Good Morning!” You smile right back, big and wide, and it’s beautiful, more beautiful than a sunrise, more beautiful than The Falls, and Paterson thinks he forgot how to breathe until your little boy chimes in, “Good Morning, Mister Bus Driver!” And his heart squeezes, forcing him to take a breath. You look down at your son, giving him a nod before dipping your Metrocard into the slot. Your son leads you both to a seat, much closer to the front this time, and Paterson realizes giddily that he’ll be able to hear you from this distance. He closes the doors, pulls away from the curb, and does his best to keep his eyes on the road, instead of on you.

“Did you talk to Miss Johnson, mommy?” He hears the boy ask, “She kept calling me James, even though I told her my name is Ben!”

You nod placatingly at him, “I spoke to her yesterday afternoon about it, but…” you bite your lip, “she wasn’t— I’m going to speak to your principal after I drop you off, alright? I’ll tell her, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

The boy, Ben, looks extremely unhappy, “Miss Johnson told me I was being irrashable, but I think _she_ is irrashable! I don’t like this school mommy, I miss my old school, why can’t I go back to my old school?”

Enchantment from Ben’s adorable mispronunciation of ‘irrational’ aside, Paterson can’t help but feel upset and concerned. He listens as closely as he can, needing to know more about this situation.

“Your old school is too far away, baby,” you say, brushing some of Ben’s hair behind his ear, “I wouldn’t be able to get you there, and then get me to work, in time.”

“But why did we have to move?” Ben whines, “I miss grandma and grandpa, I liked my old room, our new house is so small, there’s barely enough room for my lightsabers!”

You fix him with a stern look, which Ben fights with another whine before dropping his shoulders.

“You know why we had to move, and we are going to make the best of it. Mommy just needs some time to save up some more money, and then we’ll find a bigger place. And grandma and grandpa are going to visit us next weekend, they aren’t that far away!” 

Ben pouts, looking out the window without saying another word, before turning to his backpack and digging out an action figure. Paterson can’t tell what it is, all he can see is a lot of black, but whatever it is Ben begins to fidget with it. You turn to look out the window yourself now, expression distant, but your eyes are anxious. Paterson hurts for you, wants to ask you what’s wrong, wants to offer to help. But your stop comes up, and you and Ben bid Paterson farewell, and Paterson watches you go with more questions than answers burning in his mind. 

On Wednesday, because Paterson now acknowledges that today is in fact Wednesday, he wakes up hoping to see you. Paterson hopes that you and Ben waiting at that stop will become part of his daily routine, and even more than that Paterson hopes he can learn some more about you. 

Just as Paterson hoped, there you and Ben stand, two smiling faces ready to greet him as he pulls over to the curb.

Good Mornings are exchanged, and Paterson smiles even wider than he did yesterday, his memory dragging forward the sight of you anxiously staring out the window to the forefront of his mind, making him want to smile in a way that makes up for it, makes it better, makes whatever is troubling you go away.

You and Ben sit towards the front again, and this time Paterson learns that the little action figure Ben clutches is Kylo Ren. He vaguely recognizes the name, he saw those new Star Wars movies when they came out, but Paterson doesn’t really pay attention to much anymore. Nothing was very much worth paying attention to for so long, until now.

“Can we watch The Force Awakens tonight?” Ben asks as he makes the little figure walk across his thighs.

“It’s too long to watch on a school night,” you reply, watching him as he plays, “but we can watch it this weekend.”

Ben whines, but nods. Paterson is getting a feel for your dynamic, and he appreciates the way Ben listens to you. You show discipline, but you’re fair, and it’s obvious that you care. Ben knows it too, he whines like any little boy would, but he doesn’t fight you. He’s a lucky boy. Paterson wonders if he knows it, part of him thinks he does.

Part of him wonders what it is the two of you have been through. Why did you move? On top of that, why to a smaller place, and to a place too far away from his old school? Why is a boy named James insistent on being called Ben? He wants to know, wants to ask, but as usual, your stop is coming up, and Paterson merely bids you a good day as you both say your farewells.

Thursday and Friday see more of Paterson’s new routine, he picks you both up from your stop, listens as you chat, and formulates more questions he wants to ask. He even debates telling you that he doesn’t drive this route on the weekends, although he doesn’t think you’ll be taking this journey again until Monday. It seems to him like you only come this way to drop Ben off at school, so you shouldn’t need him over the weekend. He wants to ask you what time you pick Ben up, if you take the bus to go back home too. He could try to alter his route, try to be the bus that brings you home. He wants to hear Ben tell you all about his day, tell you what he learned and what fun he had. He wants to make sure you make it home safe, he’d even detour to drop you right at your door, he could make it work, the other passengers wouldn’t even notice, he’d just tell them the route had been changed. He wants to wish you a good night, wants to tell you that you’re a good mom who’s doing a good job, and that you deserve a glass of wine and a foot massage after Ben goes to bed. Wants to read Ben a story as his little eyes drift shut, brush the hair off of his forehead that looks so much like his own. Wants to pretend Ben is his, he looks enough like him to be: black hair, brown eyes, pale skin. His nose isn’t as big, he has his mother’s nose, but his ears, well… Paterson can sympathize.

Paterson doesn’t know when he started to cry, but he wipes his face with his white cotton undershirt, drops his empty glass in the sink, tosses the empty bottle of whiskey into the recycling bin and stumbles off to sleep alone in his cold bed.

He dreams you’re in his bed with him. Both of you. Ben wedged between you taking up all the room, his little arm draped across your torso protectively. A good son, he loves his mother, something happened to you both but Paterson doesn’t know what, not yet, but he can sense it. In his dream he reaches out too, drapes one long arm across both of you, he’ll protect you both. 

When Paterson wakes up his head is throbbing, but the fridge is bare, he has to go food shopping whether he likes it or not. He slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls on a baseball cap, completely unlike him, but the sun is not his friend this morning as he strides to his local supermarket.

He’s dropping a quart container of milk into his basket when he hears it, a familiar voice, one that almost causes him to drop his entire basket.

“Can we watch The Force Awakens tonight?” Ben asks, running his fingers over the little Kylo Ren action figure that sticks out of his front pocket.

“Sure,” you nod with a smile as you check dates on yogurts, “Do you want space popcorn?”

Ben lights up immediately, shaking his head vigorously, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! And can we— can we wear our costumes? I want to wear our costumes!”

You chuckle, turning to face him with a grin, “We can wear our costumes.”

Ben hops up and down, pumping his little fists into the air as he cheers.

You don’t notice Paterson where he stands watching everything unfold. He’s behind you, for one, and he’s also wearing a hat and sunglasses, completely obscuring his face. But he listens, and he smiles, and in a last minute fit of brilliance he rushes to the checkout and attempts to preemptively pick which cashier you are going to choose. He manages to pick correctly, and after paying for his own groceries, slips the cashier a few extra bills, “Do you see that woman and her young son two people behind me?” Pat quietly asks the casher, who nods in acknowledgement, “Can you please use this to pay for their groceries?” The cashier agrees with a warm smile, and Paterson thanks them before quickly slipping from the supermarket, checking his watch as he goes. 

Something new to add to his daily routine, Paterson thinks to himself, as he notes the day and time. He still has so many questions, but even without answers, he knows enough to know that you and your son are good people who could use a hand, a hand that he desperately wants to give. Every fiber of his being compels him to care for the two of you, every inch of him is alive with need, and therefore he will do whatever he can to help. Even if, for now, it’s from a distance. But he hopes, prays, that with time, you’ll notice him. He isn’t much, he isn’t very interesting, Laura had made it abundantly clear that he didn’t have much, if anything, to offer anyone. But he’d be good to you both, he’d take care of you. He’d put a roof over your heads and food in your bellies, make sure you slept in warm beds and had new clothes to wear. He’d give you a home, a good home, safe, warm, where he’d always be happy to see you two, and would do whatever he could to make you both happy.

And maybe, if he was _really_ lucky, you might see something special about him, something worth loving. He isn’t the most conventionally handsome man, but he tries to take care of himself, walks a lot to make up for his sedentary career. Still does push-ups and sit-ups every morning like he was taught in the military, tries to eat right even if his new repertoire of comfort foods aren’t always the most healthy. he’s tall, girls like tall guys, right? He can reach up high and help you get stuff that you might struggle to get on your own. He can change lightbulbs without a step stool. If you can look past his big ears, and his crooked teeth, and his large nose, then maybe you’ll find something you _do_ like about him. He knows there isn’t much, he isn’t fun or creative or talented like Laura was, that’s why she left him for a musician after all, but… 

But sometimes he still likes to write, it’s rare these days, but once in a while something strikes him, and…

He could write you a poem, a _million_ poems, they won’t be very good, but…

But maybe you’ll like them enough to stay. 

On Monday, Paterson gets behind the wheel of his bus, and promises himself that this time, he’s going to introduce himself. It isn’t much, but it’s a start, and maybe, if he’s lucky, you’ll tell him your name too.

He doesn’t want to be full of all of these questions anymore, he wants answers. And…

And if he doesn’t try— he _has to_ try.

For you.

For Ben.

For _himself_.


End file.
